The Caustic Gift of Insight
by winterswallows
Summary: Blaine Anderson is starting to discover David Karofksy is not the person he thought he was. And it's turning Blaine into a person he didn't think he was. /Five conversations. Blaine, Dave, Santana, Kurt. Blainofsky./
1. The Caustic Gift of Insight 1 & 2

**The caustic gift of insight.**

* * *

><p><strong>Transcendental functions.<strong>

"What? Why that face? What, exactly, is so fucking funny?"

"Nothing, nothing! I'm sorry. It's just. You know, you talk a lot about elegance, for someone who looks..."

"Looks like _what_, Eyebrows?"

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I'm not trying to be insulting. Really. You look _good_—you know, uhm, fine. But you dress... You honestly don't care about what you wear. Not that I think there's anything wrong with that."

Dave snorted. It was almost cute that he wanted to reassure him he was less severe about fashion than Kurt, when Dave was readily capable of disregarding even his rigorous advice.

"And yet," Blaine swept an arm as if he was leading a waltz. "'Elegance.'"

Dave shrugged. "I care about it where it matters. Like. I fucking hate Trig." Blaine was a little baffled, because he'd been promised—explicitly and adamantly—that David Karofsky was an absolute math geek. "Because it's not elegant. It yields these huge messes of irrational numbers. And some you can put in terms of pretty, neat numbers, like pi or root two, but mostly you just have to pick your significant figures and let the rest of it just hang there like it never happened. It's _sloppy_."

"And calculus..."

"_Sleek as a motherfucker._ Like a fucking Mercedes roadster. Look at this." He pointed at the notebook page full of chicken scratched functions, crossed out lines and graphs covered in smudgy erasures. "It flows well, cleanly. It's neat. It's beautiful."

Blaine raised a substantial eyebrow and bit back a smirk.

"The _idea_, okay? The concept of it. Just—here. The exponential function." David wrote out the expressions as he spoke. "Its own derivative, and, plus _C_, its own integral. That? Is fucking _classy_."

Blaine burst into laughter, and tried to drown it in the crook of his elbow before the two of them got kicked out of the library. Part of it was over the incongruous description; the rest was the green prickle of new understanding in his chest, of how little he knew David and how much he wanted to.

"Look, Your Academic Excellency, you want an A- midterm or not?"

* * *

><p><strong>Shuttle Diplomacy.<strong>

"What do you think you're doing?"

"What?"

"Dave."

"What about him?"

"Look, Prep School Ken." Santana tilted her head, less than amused. "Unlike every other self-involved loser in Glee Club I have _not_ carefully trained myself to ignore anything involving Dave Karofsky. What you're doing? I can _see _it. And I don't care if you're faking coyness or in denial, either way you're snapping out of it _right now _and explaining yourself."

"He's a nice guy. We've been hanging out. I don't see how that's something that I need to explain to anyone. Least of all to you."

"Least of all to _me_? I'm his ex-girlfriend."

"You're his ex-_beard_." Blaine found the word, the entire scheme, kind of gross.

"All the more reason. Trust me: Just because people aren't paying attention doesn't mean you're not transparent. So, once again. What do you think you're doing?"

"I—I'm just. Getting to know him. Okay? It's nothing bad. He's different from what I thought he was. He's interesting. Complex."

"You knew he was closeted and acting out and it didn't occur to you that he's complex?"

"I meant _more_. More than that. He's more than Narnia jokes and overcompensation. He's..." Blaine lowered his voice, suddenly very aware of the customers at the Lima Bean. When did a handful of people become a crowd? "He's funny, in a gruff sort of way. Smart, too— or no, not smart, _intelligent_. And he's passionate about the strangest things." Blaine smiled. "If you saw how he gets about math..."

"Oh, really? Fascinating! Tell me, does he know how to ice skate? How does he feel about Tarantino movies?"

He sighed. "I just—I like how it feels to know him. It's nothing more than that. It's nothing bad."

"Look, Eyebrows. If things were different I'd probably be encouraging you. If there's one thing Dave needs more than a good lay and parents who let him skip mass, it's a sweet, pretty boyfriend. But you can't apply for the job when you already hold the position in a different company, can you?"

Blaine couldn't answer, his tongue as stuck in place as his thoughts.

"Don't make him the Other Man. Don't make him the reason Kurt gets hurt again. Cause he won't forgive you for that. He needs Kurt to be happy in order to not hate himself."

"Even if nobody else is?" Blaine's voice was small.

Santana sat back and eyed him neutrally. Expectant.

"No—forget I said that. That's not fair." He closed his eyes and sighed. "I mean, I didn't mean it like that. I _am_ happy. So much. It's why I left Dalton, even though it was safe and familiar. Because I'm happy with Kurt near. But David is—he deserves something like that too."

"Oh, I know that. Did you miss the part of this conversation where I implied I know him much better than you? Cause we can go back over it and I'll be more literal."

Blaine didn't respond. He blinked rapidly, absorbed in his thoughts.

"He doesn't deserve _this_, though. He needs something better."

"I... I honestly don't see how I'm doing anything wrong. This thing, it's perfectly harmless; I'm not going to actually _do _anything. I'm not. And if it's obvious I think he's great—I think he needs that. To know that he can be desirable. That he's attractive. I'm just looking. Nothing more. Nothing worse. What exactly is the harm in that?"

"If you were just checking out his arms, or his thighs or his ass, then nothing. But you're beyond that already, aren't you?"

Blaine breathed a helpless sigh and stared at his coffee.

Santana evaluated him carefully, thinking of the worst (and best) that could come from this. "You're already in more trouble than you think. Because you barely know what it feels like to know him, Warbler. His sisters call him Bunny, and he can dance a decent salsa, and he loves a good Monty Python quote. And he's huge." She bit saucily into her biscotti and he blushed.

"Next time he tutors you," she said as she gathered her bag, her pastry and her coffee mug, "ask him to fold you an origami swallow. Those things are gorgeous." And she left his table, more confident and more pleased with this mess than she had any right to be.

* * *

><p>Note: This started as a comment fic I posted at the KarofskyLove LJ comm. Then I got the idea for second conversation and, well, here we are.<p>

Disclaimer: I make no claim to owning any of the characters in this story.


	2. The Caustic Gift of Insight 3 & 4

**The caustic gift of insight.**

* * *

><p><strong>Realpolitik.<strong>

"Take your hands off me!"

"Calm down."

"Fuck you NO."

"Okay, _don't _calm down." Santana stepped back, hands up, harmless.

"_He's singing to him!_" Kurt's voice was venomous and pitched low. "In fucking public, in front of everybody! After he _said_—He's barely—That insensitive asshole! What was he—fuck, _why!_"

"You know why."

"It's like he didn't even _think_ about what it'd do to me!"

"He didn't."

"And of course I'm stuck with the one person more interested in being glib than being helpful."

"I'm being honest, Princess Prick; _that's _helpful."

"It's cruel."

Santana shrugged. "So it's both."

Kurt leaned against a row of lockers and closed his eyes. The hallways were empty.

"Whatever you were about to do, Fruit Roll, was gonna be way more humiliating to you than anything Warbler did. There's cutting off your nose to spite your face and then there's cutting off your balls to spite your ex."

Kurt glared at her, his cheeks red and raw from crying.

"So, you're welcome, or whatever."

She leaned back against the opposite wall.

"Is there a button, somewhere? Did he press it and I just," he waved his arms, "stopped mattering? Can I press that fucking button too?"

She shook her head. "I think you need like a mutated gene to be that oblivious."

"We barely just broke up. I... I can't do it if it's gonna be like this. If they're gonna be so... _overt._ It isn't enough I got dumped; I have to walk around the halls and go to class with people talking about how the fags are playing Musical Boyfriends."

She dipped her head and considered. "Well, if misery loves company, you can always think about Dave—"

"I'd rather not, thanks," he scoffed. "Your beard has a lot to answer for."

"Right," she stretched the word with derision. "And what answers do you want? What could he tell you?"

"Oh, I don't know: an apology would be nice."

"It would also be full of shit. You want to hear that he's sorry? He's not, really. He's happy. That he didn't mean for you to get hurt? Well, it's not like he planned to hurt you. I know he didn't. But still, there had to be a point where he knew he was choosing between not fucking up your life and making his better."

"And no matter how much I thought he'd changed, he still chose to be selfish and hurt somebody else."

She shook her head. "That decision is almost fucking rational. So he behaved like a person and not like a saint. Let it go, Cupcake. Don't be shitty and compare it to how he was before."

Kurt shook his head slowly. He kept wiping his cheeks though they were dry now.

Santana shot him a level gaze. "I meant that he's in the gossip mill right next to you, now. This was pretty embarrassing for him too. He's been out at school for, what? Few weeks, a month? The jocks are being fucking weird, the gleeks are being fucking _weirder_, and he just got serenaded—which, trust the Latina, is always a dick move, _always_, but it's obviously worse in the middle of fourth period lunch. Did he look like he was enjoying it?"

Dave had actually slammed his head against the table once, mortified, and mostly kept a hand over his eyes the whole time, like just _seeing _Blaine's performance was embarrassing; like if he ignored it, it might not be real. He had blushed scarlet and groaned in annoyance, while jock friends and pseudo-friends alike hollered and catcalled.

And he'd laughed. Like he couldn't help it, like it was just so much and he could do so little against the grin pulling at his cheeks.

Did he look like he was enjoying it?

"Yes, he did."

Santana sighed. "Look, Kurt. Nothing in that gratuitous display of gayness was about you. And okay, you're self-centered enough that that alone feels like an insult, but don't do that to yourself. All it means is you're not at fault. There is nothing you did, or failed to do, that pushed him away. If he's not yours, it's not because you fucked up. That should feel like forgiveness."

Kurt's eyes were blurry with new tears.

She fidgeted. "If you want me to hug you, I'll hug you. Please don't want me to hug you."

"I want my boyfriend to hug me."

Santana sighed and cursed, and didn't ask before wrapping her arms around him.

* * *

><p><strong>Recursive patterns.<strong>

"You dropped something."

"Huh?"

"This look familiar?"

"Yeah, sure. Cute." Dave rolled his eyes but took back the crumpled graph paper anyway.

Kurt shrugged. "You'll miss it later, if you don't keep it, believe me. I couldn't figure how to put it back how it was, but it can't be too bad to save, right?"

Dave smoothed out the origami bird on his thigh and then carefully refolded its spine and rounded its body.

"See, you almost have it back as good as new."

"Yeah, hardly." He balanced the blue-lined little thing on his raised knee, where he could stare back at it. "Thanks. You can go now."

Kurt didn't. He sat down next to him on the floor.

"Look, you did your good deed, and you made your little metaphor, could you leave me the fuck alone now?"

Kurt shrugged a shoulder. "I just thought, if you needed to talk to someone—"

"What, it's not enough to see me feeling like shit? Need the lurid details to be satisfied?"

"It's nothing like that! I know we haven't talked in a while but I just want to—"

"Bask in my misery?"

"What? No!" he took a deep breath. "No, Dave, no. Not at all. I'm not here out of schadenfreude, if that's what you're thinking. I—we aren't how we used to be but... it stings that you'd think that."

Dave sighed. "Fine. I believe you're not here to gloat. _Now_ can you leave me alone?"

Kurt answered by not moving.

"You know, I sorta wish you _were_ happy that I'm feeling shitty. At least then someone would get something good out of it."

"I'm not that small-minded, Dave. I don't want to be the kind of person who'd be pleased that someone else is upset. I couldn't."

"Sure you could. Come on, Hummel, help a guy out. Be a little petty? Just a little? For me?"

"Fine, if you insist," Kurt straightened his posture, "You backstabbing bitch, you had it coming and I couldn't be more glad."

Kurt's playful smile slowly faded off his face. He sighed.

"Back when _I _was miserable, if you'd been miserable—I would have _loved _that." He took a deep breath. "But I'm alright now, Dave. So your being miserable is just your being miserable. Just me being sad that you're sad."

He caught Dave's gaze and held it.

"We might not be anything like friends anymore, but I still want good things for you. For all that my opinion is worth to you, now that I what I think is not really important."

"Don't be stupid, of course it is."

"Well, I think you don't deserve to have your boyfriend oust you from your lunch table just because the two of you are fighting. Really, the least he could do is make you sit through an awkward, passive-aggressive meal." Kurt smiled.

Dave returned it, thinly.

"And I'm glad what I say still carries some weight with you, after everything. It's been weird, these months, with you cutting me from your life like I was the one at fault."

Dave shook his head. "Dude, I _stole your boyfriend_. I'm not that big a douchebag, to do that and then ask you to hang out with me or like me or some shit. I figured if I left you alone to hate my guts in peace, that'd be the most decent thing to do."

"You could have just talked to me. Of course I was livid at first, but... At some point I sort of needed you to explain yourself. To hear—to understand why."

"I don't think I could have told you anything that'd be good for you to hear." Dave turned his gaze to the origami bird. "We'd fight about it, you know. He said once that the way we got together made him feel that he was acting like his dad." Dave frowned. "I've never wanted to punch him in the face so bad."

Kurt shook his head emphatically. "I don't think you're anything like his stepmother."

"Other than in age, you mean."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Well, that and the big rack."

Dave snorted but didn't respond. Kurt shifted against concrete wall, ended up marginally closer.

"He's going to Princeton."

Kurt blinked. "Uh..."

"That's why we're fighting. Because he's going to Princeton."

"So... the long distance thing? Is that the problem?"

Dave shook his head. "I got into Cooper Union. I'm gonna be an hour away from him. Fucking lot of good that'll do me when he's my ex boyfriend." He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to control his breathing.

"It's not that bad yet, is it? I mean, if it isn't the distance, then, is whatever it is really a reason to break up?"

"It's family shit. I should have stayed the fuck out of it, I knew it was a bad idea as I was doing it but... I was there when he opened the letter from Stanford, and he looked at it like the entire universe fit inside. His face when he got the big envelope from Princeton, it was like facing the fucking gallows."

"That's odd—his dad's a Stanford alum. Why isn't he going?"

"Because his dad's a Stanford alum," Dave scoffed. "His mom is putting her foot down, said he shouldn't settle for a 'pretend Ivy' when he can get the real thing, and that she won't be paying half of tuition there just so Richard can feed his ego through his son. Who cares if that's exactly what _she's _doing, right?"

"Can't he cover tuition without her?"

"I'm sure he can, but he _wants _to include her. And she's using that to get back at his dad."

"So why is he upset with _you_?"

Dave shrugged. "I took a side and it was the wrong one."

Kurt swallowed and said nothing.

"I'm a special kind of idiot, aren't I? Fighting with my boyfriend because I want him to spend the next four years across the continent from me."

Kurt picked up the paper bird and inspected it. "Is it yours, or his?"

"Mine. I mean, I folded it. For him." He huffed a quiet laugh, "I still have the first one he tried to fold. It doesn't really hold its shape, so I use it as a bookmark."

Kurt nodded and grabbed his messenger bag. "He won't break up with you over this. Not unless you keep being an idiot and letting him get away with _not talking to you_." He searched through it, shoving out his French workbook and his Chem lab notes. "No matter how angry he is, he has to know how much you care about him and how much—aha!"

He got out a single page of sheet music, a little jagged from where it'd come apart from the sheaf, and handed it to Dave.

"And if he doesn't know, you have to show him."

Dave stared at the paper.

"Come on," Kurt handed him a hardcover textbook to work on. "I've always wanted to see how you make those things."

* * *

><p>Note: Another two conversations, only one more to go.<p>

Disclaimer: I make no claim to owning any of the characters in this story.


	3. The Caustic Gift of Insight 5

**Kiss of peace.**

* * *

><p>"Okay, I just wanted to check up on you. I should really be hanging up."<p>

"You've been saying that for like ten minutes. We're turning into a cliché."

"I don't see you hanging up either."

"Since when am I above clichés?"

On the McKinley parking lot, Blaine tapped a finger against the steering wheel. "I really don't want to go."

"I know, Babe."

"I wish you'd be here with me for dinner."

"Dude, you really don't. The parent who can stand me is the one I can't stand. I'd just be a lightning rod for shit."

"I just wish I had someone on my corner."

On the other end of the line, David started to say something but swallowed it.

"David?"

"You'll be okay. Remember that everyone at that table is an adult. You can do it."

"I know I can do it, I just hate that I have to."

"I know, Blaine. They should be on your corner too."

Blaine let that go. "I do wish you could come with me."

"So do I. I'd take torture by awkward over bored numb any day."

"I'm not Kurt, David. You don't have to pretend you don't like going to church."

"I don't _like_ it, I just—it's one of those things you do. Doesn't really matter this time, though. It's Maundy Thursday. Mass is not optional."

"Do you at least get out of going again on Sunday?"

"On _Easter _Sunday?"

"Right. Forgot about that."

"Babe, seriously. I thought you were Episcopalian."

"Presbyterian, supposedly. And it's not my fault; this is not the kind of thing we've ever followed very closely. A weddings and funerals thing. I take it going to church today is a big deal?"

"Very."

"So you have to dress up?"

"Not everybody does, but I don't get that luxury."

"Does that mean you're wearing a suit?"

"I— yes."

"And tie?"

"And tie."

Blaine let out a low hum.

"Blaine?"

"Could you take a picture?"

"… Of my church clothes?"

"Yes."

"It's a drab gray suit. Nothing out of this world."

"Take a picture and I'll be the judge of that."

"Babe."

"I never get to see you dressed up and I know you look amazing. Just a quick photo, David. So I can _see _it. Jacket _fit _on the shoulders—"

"_Babe_."

"… crisp lapels running down your chest, neat collar against your neck, the line of—"

"Blaine!"

"… Your jaw; a tie I can undo before I lick your collarbone…"

"Why do you do this to me when I'm not there to kiss you?"

"Because I want you here to kiss me." Blaine smiled. "I want your hands here to distract me, your arms…" David's breathy groan made Blaine shiver. "We could just not show up. Kill a few hours in my car and leave everyone waiting, like after the Tigers game." Blaine closed his eyes. "Do you remember?"

"That was a damn good night."

"It was ob_scene_, David."

"You looked good enough to eat."

"Oh, was that it?"

"You knew it." There was a smirk in his voice.

"It's something to aim for. Because I will never forget how it felt. Your weight on my legs, your hands on my hips, your _mouth_."

"You were on a hair-trigger. So restless. And so eager— It was _fun_. Just _so. Fucking. Fun._ To watch you fall apart."

"Your mouth is evil, David. Hot and wet and evil."

"I aim to please."

"You _always_ do."

David hmmed.

"What would you do if you were here with me? If you were here and we had all night— What would you do to me?"

"I— No."

"What, 'no'?"

"I mean _now_, Blaine? No."

"Just no?"

"No."

Blaine took a minute to process this.

"Seriously, no? Come on, David!" Blaine pouted.

"No."

"Please?"

"I am not having phone sex with you today. It's a solemn and ominous occasion."

"More solemn and ominous than an overpriced meal with two people who last spoke through their lawyers? I need a distraction, Sweetheart."

"I know. But I'm serious, Babe. Today is serious."

"Just what exactly happens on Maundy Thursday?"

"Dude, really? _This _you should know. It's the day of the Last Supper."

Blaine stared at his dashboard. Well, fuck.

"Blaine?"

Blaine could hear the root of laughter in his own breathing over the line. "I'm having dinner with my parents on the day of the Last Supper. If I don't show up at school tomorrow, look for crucifixions by the highway to Westerville, okay?"

"Right." Dave snorted. "Well, since you're not about to wash their feet and predict their betrayal—what, exactly, is enough of a big deal that your mom and your dad will sit in the same table?"

"My guess is they want to discuss _what_ I'm going to study."

"Isn't it a little early for that?"

"Well, Mom, for one, has been betting on 'lawyer' since I was about nine, because I'm supposedly very argumentative."

"You're shitting me. When are you ever argumentative?"

"To you, rarely. But to them—You might not believe it, David, but Princeton debacle notwithstanding, I'm perfectly capable of defying my parents. What's more, I know _how_ to do it. I've been steeling myself for this argument since I first got interested in the performing arts."

"Is that what you'll tell them you're majoring in?"

"Well, yes. What else?"

"I don't know. Maybe 'I don't know yet.' There's nothing wrong with taking a while to make up your mind."

"I know, but there's no need. I know what I want."

"I know you do, Babe, but that's never been your problem. You always want _lots _of things. But there's a difference― you have to remember the difference between the things you want first and the things you want most."

Blaine blinked, his hand curling tighter on his phone. "And you're saying that isn't music or theater."

"I'm saying if someone wanted to learn Hindi because the writing looks awesome, I'd think he's pretty passionate about languages."

"I just think the script is cool. It'd be great to be able to read it."

"And I did not sit through John Berger talking about 'the tradition of European oil painting' on YouTube because you love music or theater."

"That was just general culture."

"No, dude. The days of Holy Week are general culture. A _Ways of Seeing _marathon is you geeking out on art history."

"It's my reward for surviving 13 episodes of _Cosmos_."

"Hey! _Cosmos_ is its own reward. You're fucking dead inside if you don't love Carl Sagan."

"It's nothing against him or his narration. It's the cheesy 80s effects powerhousing, the choppy looking green screen, the New Age spaceship, the glowing purple edges…"

"It's _Cosmos!_ It's from '79! Just ignore the cheese and ponder its profound significance."

"You sounded so incredibly Catholic just now."

"No, see, Catholics don't ignore the cheese, we revel in it."

"Well, it does go well with the bread and wine."

"Good for keeping down paper wafers and watery wine… oh, shit. I'm making jokes about the Body and Blood of Christ on Maundy Thursday―shut up, Blaine, it's not funny."

Blaine caught his breath. "You make it sound like you eat papier-mâché!"

"Stop it!" David managed between laughs. "I'm trying to be _respectful_ today. I sort of owe it to them, after the disaster back in New Years."

"'Disaster', Sweetheart? Did you do something scandalous in church?"

"I didn't tell you? It was Santana's fault, as always."

"Oh, god, _Santana_?"

"Surprisingly, not blasphemous. Just. Loud."

"What did she do?"

"You know that part of the service where you turn to everyone around you shake hands and hug and all?"

"The one you say makes you feel like a Jedi?"

"Dude, _respectful_. I'm going for _respectful._"

"Your words, Sweetheart."

David cleared his throat. "Anyway, yes, that one. The Peace. Word about me had started to get around over Christmas break, so I was trying to be especially chill and polite and not freak anyone out."

Blaine frowned but did not comment. "And Santana?"

"From all the way on the other side of the church, she stands up on the pew and yells, 'Hey, _D_ave! Peace be with you!'"

Blaine laughed (it was _not_ a giggle). "Did they scold her?"

"Father Domenici asked us to sit together from now on, 'To make such outbursts unnecessary.'" Blaine could practically hear his shrug. "It all works out."

Blaine smiled impishly. "It definitely does."

"Okay, if I don't go get dressed now, we'll be late and I'll get killed. And I don't think you'd fare much better."

"You should know, David, that 'punctuality is the most elementary of courtesies.'"

He chuckled. "You know, if I make you late enough, this dinner won't be an issue.."

"No, no. I'm being a brat. I need this done, I just don't want to do it."

"Well, twilight sleep is always an option."

"Woozily sleepwalking through dinner? That could be rather dangerous."

"You could get someone to call you with a fake emergency."

Blaine laughed. "It's my parents, not a bad blind date. I know I've been bellyaching all day. But…If they care enough to put up with each other, I can put up with them. It's the least I could do."

"Not really the _least_ you could do."

"David, they're my parents."

"Yes. So they're supposed to care. I mean, you should appreciate it and all— But sometimes you act like you have to pay them back or something. You don't. You don't owe them for it."

Blaine shook his head. "Mom _moved_ to Lima. She uprooted her entire life so I could transfer schools on a whim that didn't even work out."

"She could have said no. And she would have, if she didn't want to move anyway, if she wasn't jumping to ditch your old house and the life she'd had in it."

"So what, I did her a favor?"

"You gave her an ex_cuse_."

Blaine swallowed and gathered his wits. "If you're going resent my parents on my behalf, I'll have to ask you to stop, David. It's not fucking helpful."

For a few seconds, Blaine could not hear even his breathing over the line.

"David?"

Then he heard him sigh. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. You're right. I'm not helping— how do I help?"

"Thank you." Blaine breathed deeply. "Could you call me? When you're back from church? I can't answer if I'm still at dinner, but maybe, leave a message? I can look forward to that."

"Absolutely."

"I really gotta go now."

"I wish you didn't."

"I wish you were coming with me."

"I wish _you_ were coming with _me._"

"Bye, David. I love you."

"I love you."

Blaine clicked _end_.

* * *

><p>He got a reply to the text he'd sent Santana right as he drove past valet parking at the restaurant.<p>

**Can do. Sure you don't want a pic of something dirtier than his neat church suit? ;)**

Blaine shook his head, amused.

**No, his Sunday best will do me just fine :)**

He stuffed his cell in his pocket, and was already at the bistro's doors when he decided to send her another text.

**… Or maybe I could get back to you on that.**

When Blaine finally walked in, his parents were sharing stiff cocktails and stiff conversation at a very tense table for three. The space they'd left for him on the bench between them had them facing each other like lovers on a date.

He sighed. Nobody was going to leave this table happy. And he still had the weekend at Dad's to look forward to.

"Hi, Mom, Dad. Sorry I'm a little late."

"Hello, son."

"Darling."

He was in the middle of turning off his phone—as expected from a well-mannered young man about to sit to dinner—when something on its screen stopped him.

**And Babe- Peace be with you**

He put his phone emphatically on vibrate, set it on the table and sat down.

"So. There's a few things I need to say to both of you."

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> This is the last of the batch. Still unbetaed, and I make no claim to owning any of the characters who appear here.


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